


...a world with an angel in it

by Crowgirl



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, First Time, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Porn With Plot, Season 4 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-30
Updated: 2011-10-30
Packaged: 2017-10-25 02:46:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/270871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowgirl/pseuds/Crowgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The angel always looked like he’d break in ten thousand places if you did something as casual as shake his hand. But, Dean thought hazily, turns out you could kiss the shit out of him and he didn’t even bat an eye.</p>
            </blockquote>





	...a world with an angel in it

**Author's Note:**

  * For [yourgracewasted](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=yourgracewasted).



> Takes place in the first half of Season 4. Think of it as adding a scene to "Lazarus Rising" and/or "Monster Movie," if you like. Or possibly just an "unaired episode outtake."

Dean pulls the Impala into the parking space by the riverbank and kills the engine. For a minute he just sits, looking through the windshield, over the hood, and out over the moon-striped water. Then he leans over, grabs the six-pack off the floor of the passenger side, and gets out.

The first beer kills the worst of the shakes and he nurses the second for a while. He knows he shouldn’t, but he can drive on three and he’s only getting back to the motel five miles away. Sam would kill him if he knew but Sam’s dead to the world back in the motel and what his little brother doesn’t know won’t hurt him.

He curls his fingers around the bottle, leaning back against the Impala’s front bumper.

The demon today had been his first since the pit and he hadn’t thought it would kick the legs out from under him but when he saw those black eyes -- he hadn’t been able to do a damned thing. Yeah, he’d snapped out of it after a few seconds, but those few seconds had been enough to get Sam thrown half-way across the bar hard enough to put a bruise the size of Texas between his shoulderblades.

Dean grimaces and downs another swallow of beer. It’s warming rapidly between his palms, but it’s still cold enough to bite at the back of his throat.

And then Sam had to start the ‘exorcism on command’ shit which, frankly, scares the fuck out of Dean.

It wasn’t the doing of it; hell, he’d been hardened to that by the time he was fourteen. Yeah, it wasn’t any fun and mostly you lost the host but those were the breaks and sometimes, just sometimes, you broke lucky and got a living human back on the other end.

This new trick of Sammy’s, though -- this was something he was never going to get comfortable with. And the arguments between them about it were getting to be predictable now and Dean was tired of those, too. It wasn’t like Sammy didn’t have a point: with him, they almost _always_ got a living human back, not just sometimes, and the demon was almost _always_ gone for good, not just kicked down the stairs a few steps.

That didn’t make Dean any happier with it. He didn’t like the look on Sammy’s face when he did it: he didn’t look like Dean’s little brother any more, not like someone he used to be able to sling over his shoulder and carry around upside down.

And it wasn’t that it was _Sam’s_ decision and not _Dean’s_ \-- Sam had thrown that up to him the last time they hashed it out and Dean has been chewing it over ever since and he’s decided that really and honestly isn’t it. Sammy’s made enough decisions on his own; he’s not a kid anymore, doesn’t need his big brother to doublecheck his math all the time. Hell, he didn’t need that past the age of eleven!

This was...something else. Something that took Sam away from anywhere Dean had ever been and put him someplace Dean couldn’t follow.

‘Fuck it,’ he mutters, and downs the rest of the bottle in a long swallow. He drops the empty back in the cardboard pack and twists off the cap of the third with the cuff of his jacket.

The river flows by in front of him, deep and quiet, only a ripple or two betraying where the current is. He thinks about everything that could be lurking out there: rusalkas, mer-almost-anything, ghosts, leeches, hell, even a jagged tin can could really ruin a midnight swim.

There’s a soft brush of air past his cheek and Castiel is there beside him, a pale spot in the moonlight. Dean’s just drunk enough not to startle. He lifts the beer bottle. ‘Hey, man.’ He jerks his chin at the six-pack. ‘Want one? Help yourself.’

Castiel looks down at the pack and, to Dean’s surprise, takes a bottle, twisting it open and dropping the cap in his pocket.

‘Rough day, huh?’ Dean takes a swig from the third bottle and finds it has almost no taste. It wasn’t like it had been the world’s greatest beer, but surely it used to taste of something. The river runs by, silent and cold.

Castiel says nothing for a moment, then, ‘It was...tiring.’

‘I didn’t think you got tired.’

‘I do. Being here...fighting in this way. It can be...hard in ways I am not used to.’ Castiel takes a sip from the bottle, watching the river.

Dean nods. ‘Yeah. Runs you right into the ground, doin’ this job.’

‘It is important, Dean.’ Castiel looks at him immediately, that low gravelly voice of his almost melding with the sound of water over rocks. But Dean would know that voice anywhere and he wouldn’t know this river from a hole in the ground. ‘It is very important.’

Dean waves a hand at him and takes another drink. ‘Yeah, I know. Saving the world, fighting for God...I got it. Drink your beer. I don’t need the pep talk.’

Castiel turns back to look at the river, studying it as if he will be quizzed on it later or, more likely, Dean thinks, he anticipates he will have to fight over it later. ‘It is not wrong to be scared, Dean.’

‘Scared!’ The word comes out with more force than he had intended.

Castiel nods, still looking forward. ‘After what happened to you in Hell -- it would be wrong if you were not...disturbed.’

‘I’m fuckin’ out of my _head_ now?’ Dean slams his bottle down on the hood, too upset, too momentarily incandescent with anger to worry about the possibility of damaging his baby.

Castiel looks at him in surprise, eyebrows raised. ‘That is not what I said.’

‘I don’t fuckin’ care what you _said_ \-- I know what you _meant_ \-- are you sayin’ I’m crazy, man?’

‘No, Dean--’

‘’Cause I might be a lot of things but I know what’s fuckin’ real and that bitch today--’ The breath goes out of him like he’s been punched and he has to flatten a hand on the hood to steady himself.

The demon had looked at him -- had looked at him and _known_ him and, for just a second, he felt a door opening, way in the way back corner of his mind and there were noises and lights and smells coming out of that door he _never_ wanted to think about again. And he had just about gotten the damned thing closed again and the third beer had seemed to be locking it down just nicely and the fucking _angel_ had to show up and--

‘Dean.’ Castiel leans over towards him, putting a hand on his arm. ‘Dean?’

‘I’m not crazy.’ Is that his voice? Because he would have sworn he _had_ a voice, not that stupid little whisper that sounds like he’s on the verge of tears.

‘No, Dean. You are not.’

‘Then why the fuck do I feel like I am?’

Castiel looks at him for a long minute, face unreadable in the uncertain light, then turns away and takes a long swallow from his bottle. Dean finds himself watching, seeing the line of Castiel’s throat, the wrap of his fingers around the bottle.

‘Cas?’

‘There are things I cannot tell you, Dean. Things you must find out for yourself.’ Castiel clips out the words, short, tight, as if he’s angry. ‘I am...sorry. For some of them.’

‘Oh.’ Dean tries something that’s meant to be a laugh. ‘Only for some of ‘em, huh.’

‘You clung to me.’

‘I...what?’

Castiel takes another long swallow of beer and puts the bottle back in the cardboard case. Then he takes a step, turns, and is right in front of Dean -- very _close_ to Dean, in fact, the toes of their shoes almost touching. Dean swallows hard: this close, the intensity of Castiel’s expression is impossible to pass off as weird or kooky or “just Cas being Cas.”

This close, it’s inhuman -- but not frightening. Dean can feel sweat prick out over his skin and his free hand twitches, wanting to reach out and push Cas away or at least keep him where he is.

‘When I brought you out of Hell.’ Castiel reaches out and sets his hand over the scar on Dean’s shoulder and Dean nearly gasps aloud, his fingers clenching around the beer bottle.

No-one has touched that -- not Sam, not Bobby, not Pamela, not that random chick in the bar, _no-one._ The handprint _tingles_ when Cas touches it and before he can think, his fingers are wrapped around Castiel’s upper arm, clutching on as if the angel is saving him from falling.

Castiel looks at him steadily. ‘When I brought you out of Hell, you clung to me. You wished to be rescued.’

‘Well...yeah,’ Dean’s voice sounds gravelly and choked even to his own ears. He swallows and tries again: ‘I’m not stupid, Cas.’

‘Many souls would not. Many are...content where they are. Some are happy there.’

‘Jesus.’ The word comes out as a hiss between clenched teeth because the handprint is starting to burn, twisting into his skin and it isn’t an entirely painful feeling. And Cas is close, _way_ too damned close.

‘You were not. You wished to leave.’ Castiel leans forward, invading the last few inches of space between them. His breath is warm on Dean’s cheek. ‘I want you to remember that. No matter what else you also remember. Remember that you wished to leave. You held on to me.’

Dean stares at him, hand still tight around Castiel’s bicep. ‘Oh, fuck it...’ He leans forward, bridges the last inch between them, and Castiel’s mouth is warm and soft in ways he hadn’t imagined possible. The angel always looked like he’d break in ten thousand places if you did something as casual as shake his hand. But, Dean thought hazily, turns out you could kiss the shit out of him and he didn’t even bat an eye.

‘I don’t...I...Cas...’ Dean has to break away to breathe.

The angel doesn’t seem concerned or even surprised; he leans his forehead against Dean’s. ‘Yes, Dean.’

‘Was...did...shit...what the fuck...’ Then Dean gives up on trying to figure out what the hell he’s asking ‘cause clearly it isn’t nearly as important as seeing if he can taste the inside of Castiel’s mouth, too. Turns out angels taste of beer and cinnamon -- not a combination Dean would have thought of himself, but one he’s all about exploring right now.

He grabs Castiel’s arms, pulls him tight against his body, and doesn’t let go. The angel doesn’t seem to be trying to stop him; in fact, if Dean’s interpreting events properly, those are Cas’ hands in his hair, at the back of his neck, pulling him closer.

Castiel is warm -- even through the trenchcoat and the stupid ugly fucking suit, he’s _warm_ and solid and smells sweet and earthy in ways Dean would love to take hours to explore but right now he’s a tiny bit distracted by the fact that he’s harder than he’s been in months and Castiel doesn’t seem to realise the fact that he’s not making matters any better with those tiny breathy sounds he keeps making.

Dean nips at Castiel’s lower lip, just gently, just enough to get the angel to make that throaty _moan_ again and then he can’t help it: he groans into Castiel’s mouth and pushes a hand down between them, wanting to know if Cas is feeling the same way.

‘Dean...’ This time it is Castiel who pulls back, gasping against Dean’s cheek as Dean’s hand presses against the front of his trousers, palming what feels like a very solid erection.

‘Not so angelic after all, huh...?’ Dean whispers back, half-chuckling in his ear.

‘There is nothing unangelic about sex,’ Castiel says, his voice a little firmer now, almost prissy.

‘Well, it makes you _feel_ pretty damned godly, I know that...’ Dean fumbles at Castiel’s belt, then gives up and just yanks his shirt up. The angel is thin enough that the belt doesn’t do a great job of holding his pants tight anyway; they sag around his hips and Dean can see just enough in the moonlight to realise he wishes they were doing this someplace more comfortable because _fuck_ he could spend a while on that stomach.

‘Is...something wrong?’ Castiel sounds strangely hesitant and his hand on Dean’s chest feels tentative.

‘No.’ Dean shakes his head firmly, leaning in to kiss those cinnamon lips again. ‘Nothing’s wrong...just...just haven’t done this in awhile, okay?’

‘Ah, yes...’ Castiel breathes the words against his lips. ‘Your last male lover was...three years ago?’

‘Fuck!’ Dean pulls away in shock, ignoring the sudden draft on his chest as Castiel’s hand that had been finding its way under his t-shirt was gone. ‘How the hell--’

‘I watched you, Dean. Those were my orders.’

‘And are _these_ your fucking orders, too?’ Every nerve in Dean’s body is tingling and trembling: half of them are telling him to get the fuck out now, Cas is using him, fucking with his head. The other half are suggesting that it really doesn’t matter if Cas is fucking with his _head_ so long as he fucks with his _dick_ at the same time.

‘No!’ Castiel steps back against him, taking Dean’s head in his hands, looking at him, forcing Dean to meet his stern blue eyes. ‘No.’

‘I...’ Dean stares into his eyes for a long minute but can’t see anything there that looks remotely like lying. ‘You better not be lying to me, Cas.’

‘I would not do that. I would not lie to you.’

‘Good. You better not.’ Dean kisses him again, hard and fast this time, meant to convey a warning.

‘I would not,’ Castiel murmurs as Dean pulls back. ‘I would not hurt you like that.’

Dean isn’t sure what to do in the face of that so he goes back to Plan A: kiss Cas so he can’t say difficult shit any more. He flirts with the tip of Castiel’s tongue, then Cas gets bold, diving into Dean’s mouth, tracing the inside of his lips, and sucking on Dean’s tongue until Dean is about ready to fall on his knees right there.

Instead, he fumbles with the buttons of Castiel’s shirt and finally yanks the last two off, flattening his hands over Cas’ chest, stroking the lines of his ribs, digging his fingers into the hollows of his hips. As Dean’s fingertips press over Castiel’s nipples, the angel breaks the kiss, pressing his forehead against Dean’s collarbone, his breathing harsh and shallow.

‘Thought these weren’t supposed to be sensitive on most guys...’ Dean mutters, grinning at the top of his head as he tweaks the small nubs.

Castiel twitches under his hands and groans, his hands clutching at Dean’s waist. ‘And...and is this your...your experience?’

Dean shrugs. ‘Depends on the guy.’

‘And what about...what about you?’ Castiel straightens up with a smile that Dean can only describe as evil, and has his t-shirt up and his mouth over Dean’s left nipple before Dean can do anything.

‘Jesus!’ Dean’s head snaps back and he has just enough brain cells left rubbing together to think he’s lucky there’s no wall behind him. Castiel’s hands slide around his back, support him, hold him steady as Castiel’s tongue and teeth threaten to turn him into a whimpering pile on the ground. ‘Fucking _hell_...Cas!’

‘Not true for either of us, it seems...’ Castiel mumbles against his breastbone and moves from left to right.

‘Oh, for...oh... _G_ \--Cas...Cas...’ Dean digs his hands into the angel’s shoulders, throwing his head back, pressing up against Castiel’s mouth.

Apparently satisfied that Dean will be able to keep himself standing, one of Castiel’s hands snakes down over the angle of his hip and warm fingertips begin exploring below his navel, through the scatter of hair above his hips, and brush the base of his cock. ‘Oh...oh, fuck...oh, Cas...’

Castiel hums into his nipple, then stands up, pressing against Dean from hip to shoulder, a warm weight against him. He mouths against Dean’s throat for a moment, lips and tongue making a wet path from collarbone to ear and Dean can feel his brain switching off. His hands are making convulsive grabs at Cas’ hair and shoulders and he’s going to start humping the man’s hand in another second if he doesn’t _move_ right now.

Castiel seems to get the idea and Dean hears the sound of a zipper going down a few seconds before he registers that it’s his. With what’s left of the part of his brain that used to do strategy and is now leaking out of his ears, he fumbles his way down Castiel’s chest to his waistband, shaking fingers tugging at the belt. ‘Fuck...fuck...’ After a few seconds, he finally breaks lucky: the belt slides open and the cheap trousers practically fall off Castiel’s hips and look at that: angels go commando apparently.

Castiel goes still, frozen against him, and Dean is suddenly afraid he’s done the wrong thing. He can feel Castiel hard against his thigh and goddamn if that isn’t the _best_ thing he’s felt in months -- the drag against his hip and the slight dampness he can feel tracing a path over his skin. But Castiel still wasn’t moving. ‘Cas?’

‘I...can feel you.’ Castiel’s voice is barely a breath, more shaped air against Dean’s shoulder than anything.

‘What?’

‘I never...’ Castiel shudders and thrusts against Dean’s leg with an uncontrollable moan that seems to come straight up from his toes.

Dean smiles against his cheek. ‘I gotcha...don’t worry, Cas. I gotcha.’ He slips a hand down and strokes the length of Castiel’s erection, discovering dimensions and weight and heat with his fingertips. Castiel moans again, shivering against Dean. ‘Hey, Cas...if it doesn’t feel good...just tell me, okay?’

Castiel nods dumbly against his collarbone and Dean grins, stroking his thumb the length of Castiel’s cock from root to tip, smoothing over the tip, and stroking back along the underside, caressing the smooth stretch of skin behind, then retracing his path.

Castiel doesn’t stay still for long; his hand, uncertain at first, finds a similar path along Dean’s body, making detours to comb through the sparse hair on his abdomen, smooth over the muscles of his thighs and, before he knows what he’s doing, Dean’s gasping like he can’t breathe and he’s pumping Castiel’s cock like it’s something he’s just discovered. Castiel gets the hint, imitates the same motion on Dean, tightening his grip just slightly as he slides to the tip on each stroke, twisting his hand on the way down, and Dean groans and comes, splashing over Castiel’s hand and his own stomach.

Dean leans forward, out of breath, panting against Castiel’s collarbone and the angel is only a second or so behind, gripping Dean’s waist so hard he swears there will be bruises in the morning and coming hot and thick over Dean’s fingers.

They stand like that for several minutes, breathing harsh, leaning against each other. Castiel’s arms find their way around Dean and the angel curls against his shoulder. Dean leans against him, stroking one hand over Castiel’s stomach and thighs, feeling him breathe, feeling the last aftershocks of orgasm ripple through his muscles.

‘Well...’ Dean clears his throat. He can feel come drying stiff on his skin and he has no idea how either of them are going to clean up after that. Castiel shifts slightly, mumbles something against Dean’s shoulder and, just like that, they’re clean, dry, Dean’s worn old jeans once again covering everything they should.

‘Oh.’ Dean glances down at himself, then at the angel against his shoulder. ‘Handy trick.’

Castiel clears his throat and even then, even for him, his voice is gravelly: ‘I never needed it before.’

‘So you don’t do this with all your charges?’

Castiel looks up at him immediately and Dean had half-meant it as a joke but what humor there had been dies out when Cas looks at him. The angel’s eyes are dark and his expression is half-hurt, half-serious. ‘No, Dean. I...only with you. I would...not do that...with anyone else.’

‘I...’ Dean hesitates, clears his throat, swallows. ‘Oh.’ And that should feel like a terrifying thing to say: like a first date bringing up wedding presents. But it doesn’t. Instead, it feels...good. Warm. Solid. Safe. Not words he’s been using a lot lately. But, for once, he doesn’t let himself argue with it. Instead, he wraps his arms around Castiel, slides up onto the hood of the Impala, and brings the smaller man with him. ‘Good.’

**Author's Note:**

> Title courtesy of yourgracewasted from the absolutely fantastic _Doctor Who_ episode _Girl in the Fireplace_ which, it turns out, I don't remember anywhere _nearly_ as well as I should.


End file.
